


Kingly matters

by fandomearth



Series: After the Dagor Dagorath [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Implied Gimli/Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil and Feanor just ranting over their sons, implied russingon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 00:17:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10651068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomearth/pseuds/fandomearth
Summary: After the Dagor Dagorath, Feanor is forced to forge an alliance with the Sindar, namely Thranduil. Little do they know, however, that their situation is nearly identical.





	Kingly matters

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a version after the Dagor Dagorath, so according to my version all men come back.

Nelyafinwe and Makalaure stood next to their father as Feanaro was about to leave. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”--Makalaure asked. 

Feanaro huffed, scorning the words of his son. “Would I go should it be otherwise?”

Nelyafinwe then spoke with the most prudence he could gather. “Perhaps this matter would be best left in the hands of our uncle, Nolofinwe. He has met Thingol before..”

  
Feanaro snapped. “That is nonsense and you know it. This Sindar king is nothing like the old king of Doriath, and your  _ dear uncle Nolofinwe,”-- _ His voice was sarcastically mellow,--”had little love for him, And besides, Nelyafinwe, must I remind you that it was you who gave up the kingship to him?”

His voice was dangerously ringing, and Russandol knew that anger was still flowing inside his veins. It had not been long before his father had found out of Nolofinwe’s kingship, and who else could he blame but his eldest son who abdicated? Feanaro had been enraged, of course, a rage that Russandol feared might explode once he was in contact with the new (and last) Sindar elvenking. “I have not forgotten indeed, which is precisely why I speak to calm your ire.”   
  


“There is no need, nor there is a way.”--He turned towards Nerdanel, who was also ready to meet the elvenking.--”What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

Nerdanel turned towards her sons with certain pity, mostly towards her eldest. “Do not worry, my sons. Your father will come to his senses, or else I will make him.”--She left with a hot-headed Feanaro, whose fell mood was evident. 

Morifinwe, who had been behind Makalaure the whole time, then uttered his words gravely. “Well, here comes nothing.”

“I only hope that another war does not result from this, or else I shall go mad. I am sick of the Sindar and their petty ways and armor.--”Atarinke grunted.

Tyelkormo spoke with the same rage. “Aye, and of their terrible sense of fashion. They think themselves so pretty that they can wear whatever they want, without any consideration for their undignified clothes! The Eluchil wore silver with  _ gold _ , something any other elf would not even dare to wear without considerably risking their dignity. And do not even get me started on Luthien…”

“Sounds like someone is still burned out.”--Nelyafinwe remarked satirically, and Tyelkormo said no more in his silent rage.

***

Feanaro sat in front of the elvenking, who did not look too pleased at this meeting earlier. Nerdanel was at his side, which was perhaps the only thing that stopped him from jumping at the Sinda’s throat. The kin of Olwe had not loved well his own kin after the kinslaying of Alqualonde, and the mere thought of asking for forgiveness out of what he deemed an uncultured woodland sprite did not please him. 

And what to say of the Sinda himself? His hair was longer than Feanaro’s, and its bright blonde shade reflected the dim light inside the room. Icy eyes were furrowed by thick and defined brows, and his luminous hair was crowned by wild berries and seasonal flowers. “I assume you know why we are gathered here.”--His voice was deep and smooth like the rich velvet that his mantle was made of, and his Quenya was rough and unpolished, something that had  infuriated Feanaro in the first place. And to think that a king was not even entirely fluent in his dialect!

“Indeed.”--He responded crossly, his harsh grey eyes judged the cold blue ones that faced him. 

The elvenking quivered an eyebrow, not as in of doubt but rather as a challenge. “Then permit me introduce myself to you. King Thranduil of  _ Eryn Galen _ am I.”

Nerdanel stared at her husband as to indicate him to proceed. Feanaro muttered in silent rage. “Curufinwe Feanaro is my name.”

“There was no need to introduce yourself,  _ Lord  _ Feanor. Everyone here knows of your names, and of your deeds.”--Thranduil said sharply.

Feanaro began to dislike the elvenking less second by second. “At least I have more than one name.”--He said, great vexation in his voice. 

“Pardon me?”--Thranduil inquired, his deep voice rising slightly.

“I said,  _ at least I have more than one name _ . The Sindar have been said to be ever so simple-minded that they cannot think of more than one name for their offspring.”

“Feanaro, behave yourself!”--Nerdanel whispered frustratedly, but Feanaro did not heed.

Thranduil, however, seemed to have taken no offense. “Perhaps another day we may discuss concerning the naming system of Sindarin children, but I do not recall this being the main course of this gathering here. We are here for a more kingly matter; the alliance between the Noldor and the Sindar. What say you,  _ Lord  _ Feanor? Why should the grey elves accept the friendship and goodwill of your people?”

Feanaro, who was by then tired of what he deemed as several pronunciation and mechanical errors in the elvenking’s Quenya dialect, burst in pure satire. ‘I do not know, perhaps because we actually know how to  _ write _ in Tengwar, which by the way, I created with the intent that it would be used fluently and not by a woodland sprite thousands of years later?” 

“Feanaro!”--Nerdanel said hushedly, to which Feanaro replied with a burning stare. 

Thranduil laughed gracefully, in a way you would expect a king to laugh after an intended joke and not after an insult. “You intrigue me, Lord Feanor. One would think by hearing your words that it is a wise and offended elf who speaks, a loremaster perhaps. Yet I remember clearly that your body instantly combusted during your death, after having slain innocent elves not long ago. Or was this not so?”

Feanaro’s gaze burned hot with rage. “I died seeking for the heirlooms of my kin and nothing else. Can the king here say he has done anything to recover the heirlooms of his people?” 

“I can, indeed. I once had a claim to the treasure of Erebor, and despite the casual doubt my people very well began a war for gold. But let us not dwell on such thoughts, for the wars of the jewels have caused enough enmity between our people. Do you not think alike?”--His tone was serpentine and bitter, while his once severe expression was smug.

The other roused from his chair in quick wrath. “I will not have a woodland king to tell me what I should or should not think. My sons kinslayed half of Beleriand for the heirlooms of my house…” 

His wife intervened, halting his anger. “Enough, Feanaro! There is no need for another war.”

Feanaro fussed in the same manner a young elfling would have done to his mother. “And what do you expect me to do, to sit and hear this fool pay insult to our noble family?”

Thranduil paid no attention to the heated marital discussion and instead kept arguing with the eldest son of Finwe, as if it brought him pleasure to infuriate him. “I have children of my own as well, and not even I would place them under such an oath. I mean no offense to your noble wife,”--he gazed towards Nerdanel, whose freckled complexion was reddened by their arguing--”but it must be admitted that their lives were disgraced by the very same jewels.”

Feanaro might have exploded back then, but Nerdanel’s intense stare cooled his wrath. “Speaking of wives, none are present here at your side. I thought that than elvenking ought to be wed to have children of his own.”

“Ah, in that you are correct. I do have a spouse, and not once estranged from me. Pardon me.”  Thranduil stood up from his seat and exited the room, but his leave did not take too long, much to Feanaro’s dislike. The elvenking returned along with one of the Edain, but not like any other he had ever seen during the Dagor Dagorath. His ebony hair reached his neck, and the clothes he was wearing were neat and somehow royal, so unlike Turin, the only mortal man Feanaro had ever seen until now. His face was clear, jovial and almost  _ elvish.  _ “Allow me to introduce you to King Bard of Dale, my husband.”

Feanaro’s lips were drawn to a thin line, and his scrunched eyebrows and narrowed eyes made it clear that he was puzzled. “ _ I told you  _ the Sindar were weird.”--He bickered to his wife. 

Nerdanel, despite her initial perplexed reaction, greeted the Edain in what Feanor thought to be a dialect of common speech, unknown to him. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, lady.”--He responded in the same language, much to Feanaro’s fluster. And to think that he, creator of the Tengwar, knew not the dialect Nerdanel spoke in!

Thranduil, beaming with pride towards his husband, sat down in his chair and the Edain did the same. “Anyways, there are still pending conflicts that need to be resolved. My ancestor, Thingol, believed to have some claim over one of the Silmarilli…”

“The Silmarils belong to the Noldor, and to the house of Feanor alone. Your  _ ancestor,  _ as you call him, has no claim over the heirlooms he did not earn by his own hand. They were not granted to him by I, their creator, and are not his to take freely.”--Feanaro roared. 

The elvenking laughed haughtily, which made his husband, who understood nothing of the whole elvish conversation, to stare at him in bewilderment. “Did you truly think that I would desire those accursed jewels of yours? My people want nothing to do with them, for we all know too much blood has been spilled in their name. Your sons, for example.” 

Feanaro snarked. “What of my sons? Dare you accuse me of being an insufficient father? Of raising my sons wrongly?”

“Perhaps some would deem it so.”--Thranduil remarked, passing a cup of wine to the Edain. 

Feanaro then turned to his wife, whose face seemed blank and free of all emotion. “Nerdanel,  _ say something.” _ \--His words were demanding, but his voice almost sounded as a plea. 

To his dismay, Nerdanel stood up from the table. “You will have to excuse me, but I am out of this conversation.”--She glanced towards the king of Dale, speaking in his tongue once more-- “Are you coming? It seems that our husbands must do some discussing by themselves.”

Bard turned towards Thranduil, whose expression was serene and nonchalant, perhaps because of the wine. “If that is your wish, so be it.”--The both of them exited the room, leaving their two husbands alone on the room. 

Feanaro slammed his face to the table, cursing in what might have been high Quenya. Where once had run anger and ire now runned hurt and a sense of utter betrayal. “At least I didn’t marry an Edain!”--He muffled. 

***

Legolas had spent what seemed to him as an eternity of looking for his siblings. Or should he say  _ step-siblings?  _ The thought flew out of his mind, remembering how happy the Bardlings had made his father. Yet he had to admit that he himself was not possibly the best caretaker for children, considering that he had been raised as an only child. 

And now he was atop his horse, lost in the ancient city of Tirion, hopelessly searching for a sign of their steps while he himself had exited the city barefoot. Sigrid must have halted her two younger siblings, but Legolas knew that even her counsel could not stop the three of them from getting the lost. He unbridled his horse and walked a couple paces, until he accidentally dropped the long map of the Undying Lands he held in his hand. He ran swiftly to catch it in hand, but the paper escaped from his grasp. In anguish, Legolas stared further with his keen eyes, spotting the map from the afar. There was no way in Arda he was going to find them like this at any rate, he decided. His father could have told them to stay at home, but alas, he knew very well that Thranduil loved them too well as to get in the way of their wants. 

Legolas took his horse in reins, attempting once last time to get hold of the thin paper. Yet his bridles betrayed him, making him lose all balance and fall to the floor. “ _ Raich!”-- _ Legolas cursed in mutters, attempting to stand from the floor. However, he saw that he was not without company. “Are you alright?”--He heard a melodic, almost charming voice say to him. 

Legolas stood up in a  jump to face the voice that spoke with him. In front of him was an elf as tall as himself, his charcoal-black hair running all the way to his back. His eyes were the color of warm almonds, and his features were fair and slightly childish. “I-uh…”--Legolas stuttered.

“I wouldn’t bother with it, Kano. It is probably another one of those illiterate woodland elves. I doubt he even speaks Quenya.”--Said a raven-haired elf behind him.

“And by Eru, he is wearing no shoes!”--An elf with pale blonde hair similar to his cackled. 

But the first stranger, whose name must have been Kano, did not turn away from him. “Are you lost?”--He asked once again, this time in Sindarin. 

Legolas blushed at the previous comments, but answered swiftly in Quenya. “Why, yes! I lost my-- my siblings. I cannot seem to find them anywhere.”

Kano nodded, and turned to what apparently were his brothers, judging from the striking facial resemblance. “Where is Russandol? Perhaps he can help him find the way.”

Another elf rode next to the kind stranger. He was even taller than Legolas himself, which was quite unusual. The sun shone bright, reflecting the reddish shade of his hair and the grey tonality of his eyes. “I heard my name being said. What is it?”   
  


Kano glanced towards the startled and flustered Legolas. “This fine fellow here appears to have lost himself, and his siblings along the way. Perhaps you can help him.” 

The redhead assented sympathetically. “What be your name?”

Despite being quite intimidated by the tall elf, he managed to talk. “Legolas.” 

“Very well, Legolas,”--The elf said in his heavily accented Quenya. “Since when have you been lost?” 

“Since my father rode away to a council. My siblings and I parted in different ways, and it has been nearly an hour since I saw them. They are just children, really.”--He responded uneasily. 

Kano then talked instead of the redhead. “What is his name? Perhaps we may know him.”

“Thranduil. He is Thranduil of the woodland realm.” 

The two elves fell silent as if they had suddenly been frozen. Another elf, seemingly younger and with the same hair shade as the other, then spoke drily. “But is he not…” 

“The son of the Sindar king? I fear so.”--Another said. 

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, in which he saw the tallest despair, facepalming. “Is something wrong?”--Legolas asked naively. 

Kano then spoke with great reluctancy. “Your father was meant to meet Lord Feanor in that council, was he not?” 

Legolas assented. “Well, it is quite so. But I fail to see how this relates.”

The tall redhead spoke gravely. “It just happens to be that, Lord Feanor, is in fact…”

“Our father.”--Concluded Kano with the same tone that one would use in a funeral. 

Legolas felt that a current of intensely cold water recurred every single one of his veins. “So then that must make you... Maglor the singer.”--He uttered in a voice so small that it was barely audible. 

He heard the redhead, who he now knew as Maedhros the tall, groan incoherently. “I told Father that it would have been wisest for our uncle to speak to the Sindar king, but Eru, he never listens! He has so little tact for even with his brothers, nevertheless with a king. Mother better keep him in his reins, because otherwise I am certain another war is going to occur.” 

One of the twins stepped between the rest of his brothers. His voice was heavy with concern. “I am afraid mother is no longer at father’s side. She has left, or so I’ve been told.”

  
There was an absolute silent in which dread was dense in the air. “Are you certain?”--Asked his eldest brother. The twin assented, and Nelyafinwe turned pale, walking in various and endless 

circles as if he were deranged. 

Legolas’ complexion must have resembled the pale wax of a candle, which is why a freckled and moody elf next to Curufin the Crafty spoke. “We are not going to kill you, you know.”

“Comforting words, Carnistir. I clearly remember your words saying how much you wanted to stab Thingol.”-The blonde Tyelkormo remarked. 

Caranthir the dark rolled his eyes. “Tyelkormo, does he look  _ anything _ like Thingol to you? From what I recall, Singollo did not roam around barefoot in a tattered brown suit,”

“There’s the hair.”--Tyelkormo said, ignoring his presence as if they were not talking of him. 

“A hair shade, dear brother, that even you bear in that high ponytail.”--He replied sarcastically.

The mere comment served Tyelkormo as an insult. “ARE YOU SAYING THAT I LOOK LIKE A SINDAR?”--He exclaimed, and the bickering continued to no end. 

Legolas felt the presence of the second son of Feanor around him, “You’ll have to excuse my younger brothers. They can be quite… brutish.”--He said, his voice as melodious as earlier.’

“I would be more concerned with your eldest.”--He commented as he eyed the rapidly furious and despaired steps of Maedhros who seemed to be having an existential crisis. 

“It is nothing of gravity, I assure you. He usually plans strategies like this.”

“Strategies?”--Legolas asked amused. 

Makalaure assented. “In the old days of Beleriand all he did was roam around like a madman until his plan was formulated. That is, until the Nirnaeth occurred.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow in question. “And why is there a need to plan at this time?”

The minstrel's jovial face turned into a gesture of concern. “If you knew my father as we know him you would not be so serene of mind. He has… destructive tendencies.”

Legolas shrugged. “I do not think that matters much for my father.  He could possibly care less about anyone’s threats, acted or not acted upon.”

Makalaure was about to reply when they heard the heavy accent of his eldest brother directed towards the rest of their brothers. “Enough of your bickering!  I have a plan.”--He said to the rest of his youngest brothers. 

Curufin raised his voice in irony. “If this involves any sort of your fancy diplomacy with the Sindar I am out. We all know it worked not too well.”

Russandol’s stared at his brother not too kindly, but continued to talk. “If we wish to avoid from father getting killed or him killing someone for the matter, we will have to go back to the palace room where they stayed. Perhaps then we can find the ones you have lost.”--He said, looking at Legolas. Then he spoke in a much softer voice.--”How rational is your father?”

“It depends on who or what he is dealing with. He is usually quite rational, unless he is dealing with dwarves. Or if he is drunk, or if someone has paid him insult.”--Legolas quickly responded. 

There was a flash of preoccupation in the redhead’s eyes. “We better make haste then.”

Legolas agreed upon those words. “As you say, Lord Maedh--”

“Nobody calls me that.”--He said abruptly, marvelling Legolas at the edge of his words.--”It is clear to anyone that I am not worthy of the title. Himring fell long ago, perhaps even before your father was born. Not that I love my father name too well either. ‘Third Finwe.’ My father wouldn’t stop his mockery even after I was born.”

Legolas was silenced by the comment, until the third son of Feanor spoke. “And there is  _ Maitimo,  _ of course, but no one addresses him like that with the exception of a certain dark-haired, golden braided cousin of ours…”

Russandol rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Says the one that was abandoned by his own dog for chasing after a certain Doriath princess.”

Tyelkormo must have fussed for nearly the whole way regarding what he deemed the tedious clothing options of Luthien Tinuviel, which only made his eldest brother give him an exasperated look. “And to think that I used to believe that having three human siblings was vexing.”

“Human?”--Makalaure remarked in surprise.

Legolas felt his throat going dry. “My siblings, per say… are  _ step-siblings _ to be honest.”

The poet shrugged. “I guess my grandfather is not the only elf to have had two wives”

The comment only served to fluster Legolas even more. “My father doesn’t have a wife, but rather a second husband.”

The Feanorian’s unamused stare was something quite hard to dismiss. “Ah, I should have known. Beren and Luthien, eh? Classic.”

Legolas was by far even more flabbergasted. “I never thought about it  _ that way _ .”

Caranthir intervened in the conversation. “He is messing with your mind, that is for certain. Makalaure rhymes with  _ macabre, _ does it not?” 

Legolas appeared even more confused until he heard younger voices in the air. “Legolas!”--He heard Sigrid exclaim, followed by her younger siblings. “I tried to stop these two from running around, but it was hopeless.”

The youngest Bardlings looked eagerly at Legolas, who stood besides the Feanorians. “Legolas, are these your elvish friends?”--Asked Bain, the once king of Dale now turned back into a cheerful nine year old.

“Actually, uh…”--Legolas stuttered, sensing the glares of the sons of Feanor. 

Tilda was beaming with excitement at the sight of them. “And they are so pretty too! Not even Mirkwood elves have red hair like this!”--Without further warning, the child toyed around with Russandol’s red locks, who did not tend to any resistance. In truth, Legolas could have sworn there was a trace of a smile in the his lips. 

“Legolas, where is father? We have not seen him in all day.”--Said Sigrid, with a trail of preoccupation in her voice. 

“That is precisely where we are going, to find him. To find our fathers. But come, we must be hasty.”--They walked furthermore, and Legolas could not help but to notice that Tilda was now messily braiding flowers in Russandol’s medium length curls. 

“You are good with children.”--Legolas remarked to the elf, who did not seem to care for the odd stares given to him by the rest of his brothers. 

Russandol did not deny such thought. “That is what happens when you have six younger brothers to take care off. Eru, I already knew how to yield a sword while Atarinke was still in diapers. Still, I never cared much for it.” 

There was frankness in his eyes, Legolas noticed. Years ago, he could not have possibly believed that he was to meet Maedhros the Tall, (or should he say Russandol?) kinslayer of the old days in Beleriand. Yet Legolas now saw that, unlike what he had once believed, none of the sons of Feanor were truly despicable, or wicked in any way. 

Alas, if his father heard him! And what to say of his father, and of Gimli? Perhaps the hatred that had once ran between the Noldor and the Sindar could be healed, just as the quarrels between dwarves and elves had ceased because of his love for the dwarf. A love he bore still, in hopes of being reunited with the son of Gloin. 

***

Feanaro, whose cheeks were set blazing by the large quantities of Dorwinion wine he had ingested during the whole hour, kept narrating the drama of his life as he took even more sips of wine. “All of my life I taught my sons to despise and ignore their half cousins, and what do they do?  _ The exact opposite.  _ Nelyafinwe gave up the crown to the bumbling fool that is my half brother, Tyelkormo befriended Irisse… AND NOW YOU SUGGEST THIS?”

If Thranduil had at first been unaffected by the wine then it was no longer so. Even the elvenking showed signs of intoxication as he passed the bottle to Feanor. “If you think you have it badly, then truly my situation must be a ruin! Your son could not possibly marry, say, his dear Findekano, could he? My son, however, not only befriended but  _ PLEDGED  _ himself to a lowly dwarf! At least your eldest cannot do such a thing.” 

The last words produced a striking effect on Feanaro, who roused immediately. “Eru, I would rather hang myself!”--But his skin turned a shade paler than it was before.--”Although now that you happen to mention it…” 

But Feanaro never quite got to conclude his statement, for the doors were abruptly opened. “FEANARO CURUFINWE!”--He heard Nerdanel’s voice echo around the four walls of the room.--”Have you any idea of how long you have been in here? Your sons have been walking nearly half of Tirion in hopes of finding the both of you alive, and all you have done is DRINK?”

Thranduil stared up to meet the glances of Bard and their children. “Are you going to yell at me too?”--He asked genuinely. 

Bard shook his head, wrapping an arm across his husband’s chest, helping him to stand up. “To be honest, I have no idea of what she is talking about.”--He said, as the Bardlings greeted him effusively.--”Care to explain me what you have been doing here this whole time instead of killing yourselves off?”

Thranduil eyed Legolas, who was bewildered enough by the whole situation, and then his eyes turned to the eldest son of Feanor. “We have been discussing… kingly affairs. Regarding our sons. And their… amorous statuses.”

Feanor, who was drifting off in hiccups, turned towards a flower-adorned Russandol. “Take those hideous things off your hair, won’t you? There is no need to make the whole Findekano situation even more obvious. And you,”--he turned towards Legolas, who held Tilda next to his side--”do a favor to your poor father and throw away those beastly dwarvish courting beads. Pledging yourself to a dwarf is as bad as it is.” 

The sons of Feanor and Legolas exchanged mutual glances of confusion. “Dwarvish courting beads?”--Asked Tyelkormo, nearly laughing out of amusement.

It was now Russandol’s turn to pale away and drench in sweat. “I cannot believe that this whole time they have been ranting about us instead of killing each other.”

Atarinke seemed to find the situation nearly comical. “Nay, what amuses me is the fact that it took father over thousands of years to figure out the whole Findekano situation. Anyone that has eyes could obviously tell what was going on between the both of you. You kept sneaking him into your sheets even mother noticed eventually…”

“Stop telling people things, will you? At least we should be content with the fact that no one in this room is maimed or killed.”--Makalaure whispered. 

“Da?”--They heard Tilda’s sweet voice say to Thranduil.--”Does this mean that everyone is friends with everyone now?”

Feanaro and Thranduil interlocked glances and groaned. “Fine.”

And so it was that Nerdanel dragged her sheepishly drunk husband out of the room, while Thranduil kept making comments to Bard regarding the conversation he had held with Feanaro. “I was right, see? His eldest son was indeed very gay. And for his  _ cousin.” _

Bard seemed even possibly more bewildered than the rest of them. “I cannot believe I am married to an elf.”


End file.
